The Phrase
by Garonne
Summary: Watson longs to hear a certain phrase from Holmes, but the latter seems more interested in solving the case of the Kent Arsonist. Mystery, and slash.
1. Chapter 1

Author's note:

First chapter of four. The others are already written, so you won't have to wait too long for an update!

Disclaimer: the characters don't belong to me...

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Were I setting down this tale for public consumption, I would say that the case of the Kent Arsonist began with an unexpected visitor at breakfast time, in the middle of April 1882. For my own part, however, the most important aspect of the affair had its roots in a conversation I had somewhat earlier that morning.

I was lying on my side in bed, my weight on my sound shoulder, facing the curtained window. I knew that without, a bright and promising spring day was just beginning, and it would have been pleasant in the extreme to throw open the curtains and fill the room with warmth and sunlight. It would not have been a very sensible idea, however, given the amount of windows there were in the opposite façade, and given the fact that Sherlock Holmes was lying in the bed behind me.

I was feeling rather melancholy that morning, despite the breath of spring in the air. My fit had begun the previous night, after we had tired each other out, and Holmes lay with his head on my shoulder, his long, thin form curled up around me. I should have been filled with contentment, but The Phrase had weighed particularly heavily on my mind.

For three long months It had been buzzing around in my head and threatening to escape from my mouth at any moment. I love you, I thought as he hovered over me, his sinewy arms flexing and his mouth descending onto mine. I love you, I thought as we lay entangled in sheets and each other, slowly regaining our breath. It's a good thing I love you, I thought when I found a suspicious blue powder in my tooth mug. It's because I love you, I thought as Holmes wondered aloud how I endured his midnight mistreatment of his violin.

But even to say: I love to wake up and find you beside me, seemed a little too overtly sentimental for his tastes.

Holmes startled me by speaking out loud, when I had supposed him asleep. "You are rather quiet this morning, my dear Watson... and I am frightfully bored. I haven't had a case in two weeks." His fingers began to move gently over the small of my back. "However, the inactivity has not made me lose my touch to such an extent that I cannot deduce your unhappiness from the set of your shoulders. What are you thinking about, my dear fellow?"

I stiffened, rather panicked, and said the first thing that came into my head. "Strawberry jam."

His fingers stopped moving. I knew he didn't need to see my face to know that I was lying. He said nothing, however, and we lay there for another few minutes in uncomfortable silence, before Holmes suddenly leapt out of bed. "I believe I shall go and see whether my oxalic acid has crystallised overnight."

When I descended to the sitting room a few minutes later, after a detour to my own bedroom to don a dressing gown, Holmes was bending over his workbench, frowning into a beaker. He scratched around inside it a few times with a glass rod, before setting it aside with an irritated tut.

Mrs Hudson was already in the room too, bearing tea, eggs, porridge, toast and the strawberry jam which had inspired my ill-chosen lie.

"It's the start of a beautiful day, Dr. Watson," she beamed at me. "Spring has come early this year, I would say."

I managed to muster up a cheerful smile in response, and sat down to the breakfast table. As Mrs. Hudson left, and I sprinkled sugar in my porridge, Holmes came to join me. He seemed abstracted, and I hoped he was thinking of dissolution and filtration rather than my unfortunate answer to his question.

"I was thinking of going to the opera this evening," I said tentatively. "It is _Apollo et Hyacinthus_, with Cairns."

"Cairns? The man has no soul," he said without looking up from his fastidious de-shelling of an egg. "I am sure he does not understand a word of what he sings, so I do not particularly desire to hear him sing in Latin. _Si vis amari, ama_, he could sing, as if it were _Five herring for sixpence_." He looked up at me and proclaimed: "_Amor meus amplior quam verba est_. That is how he should sing, with depth and passion."

I laughed, because the image had flashed into my head of the portly opera-singer in question appearing on stage in his dressing gown with toast in one hand and an egg spoon in the other. Holmes seemed rather put out, for some reason.

"In any case," he went on, "I have no intention of sitting through an opera where a completely spurious female character has intruded into the love story, simply because social conventions could not countenance Ovid's original intentions." He picked up one of the newspapers which Billy had already brought. "I intend to devote my evening to a study of crystallisation conditions."

I finished my breakfast in silence, hoping devoutly that my idiocy had not set Holmes off into the start of one of his dark moods. I hated to see him suffer, but I will admit there was a certain amount of selfishness in my hope as well. At the best of times, Holmes seemed cold and emotionless to me, but when he had descended into a cocaine-ridden state of languor, I didn't even have the palliative of his physical attentions.

When I had eaten my fill, I took my tea and went to stand over my desk, glancing through some case notes I had been writing up the previous evening.

"Perhaps I shall stay in tonight after all," I said, half to myself. "After all, I have several passages which I have been wanting to write up for a few days now."

I didn't think Holmes was even listening, I thought he was brooding over his newspaper. But to my surprise, I suddenly felt his hands at either side of my waist, and his breath on the back of my neck.

"Don't let me dampen your day, my dear man. If you truly wish to hear this imbecile sing - "

"Indeed, no. It was merely an idle thought."

I had turned my head slightly to speak to him, and so he was able to brush my cheek with his lips.

"In that case - " he said softly, turning me round to face him squarely.

At just that moment, we heard Mrs. Hudson's tread on the stairs, and flew apart, Holmes crossing to the other side of the breakfast table and picking up a newspaper he had laid down there, and I sitting down to pour another cup of tea. Our landlady had a fine, deliberate, thumping tread. Sometimes, in my more imaginative moments, I imagined it had become distinctly louder and more deliberate since Holmes and I began locking the sitting-room door and retiring to bed early, three months previously.

She paused in the doorway. "There's a young lady downstairs asking to see you, Mr. Holmes."

"Good heavens, what an unsociable hour to call!" I could not help exclaiming.

"Do send her up, Mrs Hudson, please," said Holmes, already disappearing into his room to dress.

By the time our visitor was ushered in, a few minutes later, we were both dressed and reasonably respectable. To say the same of her would have been a travesty, for she was a thousand times more than respectably dressed. Indeed, she was clothed in what I assumed was the very heights of the latest female fashion.

Her voice, when she spoke, betrayed her wealth and education as much as her attire did.

"I do apologise for calling on you at such an early hour, Mr. Holmes," she said after introducing herself as a Beatrice Trent-Smith. "But the fact is, I must return to Kent before midday, or my father will notice my absence. He was away from home yesterday, you see. He does not know that I have come to London."

I was not surprised to hear that she still lived under her father's roof, for she could scarcely have been more than twenty years old, and I did not need Holmes's skill for detection to note that she wore no wedding band.

"Perhaps you had better recount your problem to us with all possible speed," said Holmes.

I suspected from the state of Miss Trent-Smith's eyes that she had been crying recently, but she remained perfectly composed as she related her tale.

"My fiancé has been accused of a most spiteful crime, Mr Holmes, and all of my family are ranged against him except myself. Perhaps I should explain that my father is an extremely well-to-do man, and our family one of the oldest in the county, while my fiancé - well, his father was in trade, as a matter of fact. He himself is training to be an accountant."

She shot a quick glance at us as she spoke, but if she thought we would be shocked by this not very serious social disparity, she rather mistook the circles in which Holmes and I moved. Moreover we both worked for a living ourselves, after all.

She went on: " Well, this didn't please my parents at all, of course, but they nevertheless smiled upon - that is to say, I finally persuaded them to permit the match. You cannot believe how happy we were, Mr Holmes! We were to be married in April, until this - this terrible event befell us."

Holmes stirred a little, restlessly. I supposed, rather wistfully, that all this talk of love and happiness grated on his nerves.

"Yes, perhaps you could precise the actual nature of this crime for us, Miss Trent-Smith?" he said, a little tartly.

She went on with her story. "It happened two nights ago. One block of the stables was burned to the ground, killing my father's favourite hunter. The head stable-boy swears he saw my fiancé slipping into the stable-yard just a few minutes before the fire was detected."

"There is no chance that the fire could have begun accidentally?"

"It appears from the ruins that someone had strewn oil about the floor. And with the stable-boy's testimony, everyone is convinced of my Edward's guilt." With all her composure, she was unable to keep a bitter edge out of her voice. "He was already held in low regard by the entire family. And unfortunately he had had somewhat of an altercation with my father earlier that evening."

"He protests his innocence, of course?"

For the first time, she lost a little of her poise. "He says he remembers very little of the whole night. He had been - unfortunately he had been drinking with one of my cousins. But it could not possibly have been him. He would never do anything so cruel and spiteful! It is completely contrary to his nature."

"And is it in his nature to become so much the worse for wear that he cannot remember his actions?"

Miss Trevor-Smith coloured even further, but her gaze remained steady. "Not in the least. He swears it has never happened before. But he was not unnaturally upset by the confrontation with my father, and I suppose..." Her voice trailed away. "I beg of you, Mr Holmes, do not judge him as my father has. The man I love is incapable of the slightest cruel deed. I am convinced of his innocence, and our future happiness hangs upon your intervention."

He held up his hand, presumably not wanting to endure any more of this romantic drivel. "I have already made up my mind to accept the case, Miss Trent-Smith."

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We had the compartment to ourselves on the train journey down to Kent, giving me the liberty to sit beside Holmes and rest my head on his shoulder without fear of ending the day in gaol.

"You are out-of-sorts today, my dear Watson," he said, running his fingers through my hair, something of which he never seemed to tire.

"It is nothing," I said. "I got out of bed on the wrong side, that is all."

He turned further towards me, running a finger softly down one side of my face. It was the softest, gentlest touch imaginable. Holmes could be incredibly tender, when he wished; physically tender, that is to say. Unfortunately he had scarcely said anything more tender than 'my dear fellow' to me, however much I wished it otherwise.

Now he was tilting my head back, to plant a series of kisses along my other cheek.

"How pleasant to be in daylight," he murmured, before lowering his lips to mine.

I knew precisely what he meant. To kiss in daylight was a luxury we rarely had. Always, there were the curtains, the shutters, the cover of darkness. But in the train, with the door to the corridor curtained, and orchards and hop-gardens flashing past the window, we were momentarily safe from the constant fear of observation.

Holmes drew back for a moment, and gazed at me with the strangest expression, as if he were about to devour me. "You were made to be seen in the sunlight, Watson," he said softly, his hand in my hair again. "You glow golden."

It was at times like these that I could imagine he actually loved me. But I knew that was a dangerous path to allow my mind to take, for only disappointment lay at the end of it. Some portion of my thoughts must have shown in my face, for his brows came swiftly together in a scowl.

"Good Lord, Watson, what is the matter with you today?"

"I am sorry, Holmes. I'm thinking melancholy thoughts, that is all."

He withdrew from me, still frowning, and took his watch from his pocket in a rather pointed movement.

"We should arrive in less than ten minutes. Let us hope that Miss Trent-Smith has managed to escape her father and meet us at the station."

He seemed to want to put the conversation on a more professional plane, and so I risked a question on that topic. "Do you really think the young man is innocent, Holmes?" I asked. "After all, we only have the lady's extremely biased testimony to go on."

"Sometimes love gives rose-tinted glasses, as the saying goes," Holmes said slowly. "But sometimes that object of love is entirely deserving of it." He wasn't looking at me, but at his watch, as he spoke. For one wild second I thought he was speaking about me. Then I told myself it was only my own wishes whispering to me, and perhaps my own vanity, and forced myself to laugh.

"How strange to hear you talk of love, Holmes."

"Indeed," he said dryly, standing up to take down his suitcase from the rack. "I perceive we are arriving."


	2. Chapter 2

The Phrase - 2 of 4

Author: Garonne

Thanks for the reviews :-) please do review if you like it – or if you don't, as the case may be...

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Miss Trent-Smith's betrothed was a tall, stolidly built young man by the name of Adams. He faced us across the battered old table of the prison visiting room, his face crumpled in shame.

"I wish I could be of more help, gentlemen. But really, I feel entirely useless. I don't even - " He turned red, glancing with infinite apology at his young lady. "I don't even remember drinking all that much. I was upset that evening – I suppose Beatrice has already told you about a bit of a dispute I had with her father. I left his house in rather a hurry. I meant to go back the following day and apologise, of course, but now... " His voice trailed away.

"Perhaps we can restrict ourselves to those things which did actually take place," Holmes said.

I understood Holmes' wish to stick to the relevant facts, but I wished he would show more empathy with the wretched Adams, who evidently felt the loss of his beloved much more deeply than the loss of his liberty. I imagined for a second being imprisoned like him, and separated from Holmes. It was not such a far-fetched idea, after all. Holmes was the paranoid one, but even I could not forget that every night spent in each other's arms was another night which could condemn us to years of hard labour.

I shook myself out of this grim train of thought, and began to pay attention to Adams' words. In his account, he was addressing himself to Sherlock Holmes, but spending half of his time looking at Miss Trent-Smith, clearly treasuring every moment of her short visit. "I returned to town from their estate, and was walking back and forth along the sea-front, working off my anger I'll admit, when I met Mr Walker. He was kind enough to propose a drink and a chat."

"That's my cousin, Mr Charles Walker," Miss Trent-Smith interjected.

Adams gave her an adoring smile, completely transforming his weary face, before continuing: "We went to a pub on the seafront, the Anchor, and had a few glasses. Mr Walker was most sympathetic. He – well, I will put it honestly to you, gentlemen. He is the only member of Beatrice's family who ever tolerated me, even before this horrible business. Then a rather rowdy group of sailors arrived, and Mr Walker suggested repairing to another pub he knew. Then after that..." He hung his head, his face red with shame. "I don't remember anything until I woke up in a gutter on the harbour-front with a splitting headache."

Holmes was regarding Adams in his usual detached manner, that great brain already turning over the facts he was hearing, while he remained unmoved by the man's distress. "And what was the cause of your altercation with Mr Trent-Smith?"

Adams turned even redder than he already was. "He accused me more or less openly of being a fortune-hunter." He bit his lip. "It is the first thing which comes to mind, of course, when a man in my circumstances courts an heiress..."

The gaoler rattled his keys significantly and coughed. At the time, Sherlock Holmes was beginning to be rather well known in London, but evidently he would have had to feature in the racing pages of the _Folkestone Gazette_ for this fellow to have heard of him, and so we soon found ourselves being turfed out of the visiting room without ceremony. I tugged Holmes forward in order to allow the other couple a few moments of privacy before we and Miss Trent-Smith were escorted to the street.

On the pavement outside, our client took her leave, after promising to brave her father with the truth that night, so that the following day we would be able to call on him, and look around the burnt-out remains of his stables.

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The small town where Adams lived and worked drew most of its livelihood from its fishing harbour. The hotel where we were putting up was in the more genteel part of town, further from the seafront, and we had left our luggage there before meeting our client. After parting from her, I had expected Holmes to make a bee-line for the harbour inn where Adams had been drinking, or even suggest walking out to the Trent-Smith estate to begin our investigations under cover of darkness, without the sanction of the head of the family. To my surprise, however, he suggested dinner at the nearest pub, followed by a stroll through the town.

Once filled with steak-and-kidney pie, therefore, we set out along a street which led away from the town centre, and rose steeply upwards towards the cliffs which lined the coast in that area. By this time, the light was already begin to fade, and the grimy sea-side town took on a softer, gentler air in the twilight. Soft orange light flickered through the cracks between drawn curtains in the windows we passed, hinting at cosy fire-sides and lending the streets a picturesque air which was completely absent in daylight.

Holmes strode along, his long legs naturally making his pace longer than mine would have been, even were I not hampered by my old wound. He was discoursing volubly on a new type of electrical-powered light-bulb which apparently could burn for more than a thousand hours.

The topic was most interesting, although I must admit that as large a portion of my faculties was taken up by observing Holmes as by listening to him. I watched his scarred, stained hand as it moved in punctuation of his words, long thin fingers sketching out carbonised cotton filaments and vacuum pumps. I stole glances at his pale, angular face, filled with animation by his enthusiasm for his subject. This changed suddenly to concern as he stopped dead in the middle of the street.

"Watson, I do apologise. I am being most unaccountably thoughtless. I am forgetting what such a steep ascent must be doing to your stiff leg."

I stopped too, warmed by his concern, although it really was not necessary. I smiled at him. "You are rather charging along like a steam train, Holmes, but I assure you, my leg is coping perfectly well."

"It was thoughtless of me, nevertheless. And you - you reward me with one of your incomparable smiles." He reached out suddenly and grasped my elbow. It was the most he could bring himself to risk in the public street, even if it were dark and almost deserted, but at that moment, it seemed to me as gentle and intimate as a kiss.

"Holmes," I began, hardly knowing how to choose between all of the unforgivably maudlin ways I wanted to finish that sentence. I transmuted the words into another smile. "Really, I am fine. And I would quite like to get to the top of this hill. I have a feeling that, if we round the corner, we shall have a view over the bay and the whole town."

Indeed, at the top of the street the terraces of houses came to an end, and we emerged onto a grassy space, which in the darkness was dotted with the vague shadows of wooden benches and lobster crates. We crossed it to lean on a railing which protected Sunday strollers from falling down the rocky cliffs to the harbour below. Spread out before us was the deep dark mass of the bay, ringed three-quarters way round by the speckled carpet of street-lamps and lighted windows of the town. The sea-breeze was blowing towards us, and all we could hear was the musical clinking of metal fittings as boats rocked in the harbour below.

Safe in the darkness which had now completely fallen, Holmes took my hand in his, and pressed it against him. We stood for a few moments like that, without speaking. I thought I would like to remember this moment for ever. After a while I turned my face towards Holmes, and found that he had been looking at me, although he could not have been able to see much more than my silhouette.

He caught my gaze, and I saw the shadows of his face change shape in the darkness as his mouth moved in a smile.

"Shall we go down?" he said. "This is far from being a balmy summer's evening."

It would be pleasant indeed if life were made of perfect moments like that, I reflected as we returned to the hotel. Holmes and I, side-by-side: I wanted to imagine that we would be so forever.

Holmes seemed to be deep in thought as well. I hoped that he too was thinking how glad he was to have me by his side, although his mind had probably returned to electrical light-bulbs.

When we reached the street where our hotel was situated, quiet and deserted in the moonlight, I suddenly found out what he had been thinking, for he drew me closer to him, and murmured it in my ear.

My heart leapt and my face began instantly to burn.

"Good grief, Holmes..." I stuttered.

I am rather prudish by nature, I will readily admit. Holmes, on the other hand, has a very impressive vocabulary when no one else is around to overhear us, and as we proceeded down the street he continued to employ it, in a low voice, and to spectacular effect, stopping only when we were within earshot of the hotel's night watchman.

"Evening, gentlemen," the man said, looking up briefly from the pages of _The Sporting Life_. "Cold out, eh?"

My face felt like it was burning bright red, and I was glad I was wearing my long coat buttoned up, hiding Holmes' effect on the rest of my body. Holmes, damn him, looked as composed as always, and his cheeks as pale as ever.

"Everything all right, Doctor?" he said, with an eyebrow arched. "Perhaps we should remain downstairs for a quick drink?"

"I am going directly upstairs," I said with as much dignity as I could muster, and marched up to one of the two rooms we had taken, Holmes following on my heels.

I shut the door behind us and we both fell upon it and each other, laughing like boys.

"You bastard," I gasped. "I thought I would explode!"

"I had better release the pressure, in that case," he murmured, loosening my cravat with one hand and locking the door with the other. "It's a risky business, applying heat to a sealed container."

My gaze travelled downwards. "You're approaching rather a high pressure yourself, I see."

"Well, with such a splendid example of mankind hanging around my neck, how can I help myself?"

"You did a rather good job of controlling yourself up to now," I said in admiration.

Holmes ran a finger down the length of my bare neck, making me shiver. "Let us see if I can make your body obey me as well as my own, shall we?"

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I was drifting off to sleep when I felt the sudden absence of Holmes' warm body beside me and roused myself slowly. When I finally opened my eyes, I found Holmes standing over me and watching me. The light from the candle he held softened the sharp lines of his face, and his eyes appeared gentle and affectionate. He saw that my eyes were open, and his face softened further into a smile.

"Holmes?" I said sleepily.

"Go back to sleep, my love." He brushed a lock of hair from where it was tickling my forehead. "We shall be busy tomorrow."

"Don't go, Holmes," I murmured, but he had already left. He was far too paranoid to spend the night in my bed in a public hotel.

I fell asleep wondering whether I had dreamed his parting words.


	3. Chapter 3

The Phrase by Garonne (3 of 4)

This is the detective-y chapter, next chapter is the soppy one ;-)

Please review if you like it!

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Mr Trent-Smith met us with a haughty air of forced tolerance, verging on barely disguised impatience. He clearly saw us as meddlesome young men, who were taking up time he could better have spent drinking port and reading _The Field_. While he shook hands with us he employed a few dismissive phrases to belittle those of Holmes' successes which he remembered reading about in the London papers.

I burned to defend my friend's reputation, but Holmes did not need me. His cool response was more than a match for Mr Trent-Smith's belligerence.

In any case, the man had evidently already ceded to his daughter's pleas, for he gruffly granted us permission to 'waste our time poking around the place'. He insisted on accompanying us in our investigations, however.

The family estate was some miles outside the town where we had spent the night, and slightly elevated above the surrounding countryside. On the one hand, the North Downs stretched for miles, and on the other, freshly ploughed fields sloped down to the sea, and the Continent only a few miles beyond. We walked with Mr Trent-Smith past his many outhouses, a fox terrier trotting at our heels. Although the day was cold, the skies were cloudless and the sea breeze soft and gentle. It was an unpleasant shock when we rounded the corner of the rose-garden wall, and came upon the ugly black ruins of the burnt-out stable.

"There you are, Mr Holmes. You may poke and pry as much as you like," Trent-Smith said. "That's what my daughter hired you for, it seems."

"Yes, and we wouldn't want her noble sacrifice of a fraction of her pin-money to go unrewarded, would we?" Holmes murmured for my ears alone, before stepping gracefully over the charred remains of the stable-yard gate.

Holmes is magnificent when he is at work. I try not to watch him too closely, always afraid to betray us by the love that must be obvious in my face. That day, he flew from corner to corner of the burnt-out shell, his nimble fingers poking at the scorched bricks or scratching at some spot on a charred piece of timber, his sharp eyes missing nothing in his minute examination. Every so often he would kneel down to study something more closely, then spring to his feet again. Occasionally, for some inexplicable reason, he glanced up at the entrance to the yard.

I could have watched him for ever, but the crunch of boots on cinders alerted me to the arrival of another person. Holmes broke off his search and came to join Trent-Smith and me outside the ruins.

The new arrival was a man a few years younger than we two, as tall and dark as Holmes but with a nervous, uncertain set to his face.

"Good morning, uncle," he said, glancing with curiosity from me to Holmes.

He was introduced to us as Charles Walker, down from Cambridge for a few weeks' break.

"How is your investigation progressing, gentlemen?" he asked.

Holmes didn't answer him directly. "You were with Mr Adams on the night of the fire, were you not?"

Walker assumed an air of consequence. "That's right. He was rather out of sorts. I presume you know the story already?" He glanced sideways at his uncle, who made a harrumphing noise. Walker went on:

"We had a few pints - rather a lot of pints actually. I was a little worried that Adams wouldn't be able to get home all right but he assured me he was fine, and he seemed able to walk in a straight line, so we parted, and I rode back here."

"Mr Adams was on foot? It must have taken him quite a while to arrive out here to start the fire, don't you think?"

Walker shrugged. "It certainly took him a great deal longer than it took me to get here, in any case, because when I stabled my horse, all was quiet. And Andrews - that's the stable-boy - told me that he saw Adams a long time after I had turned in."

Trent-Smith interrupted. "If you've quite finished interrogating the members of my family, Mr Holmes - ?"

He began to march back in the direction of the house. Holmes nodded to me to follow the squire, while he fell back a little with the man's nephew.

Mr Trent-Smith took long strides and needed no cane, and despite my being half his age, I had some trouble catching up with him. He was already out of view around the corner of an outhouse when I heard an animal yelping in pain, and turned to see the terrier skittering away, and Walker standing glaring at it.

"It's a vicious little dog," he muttered for our benefit.

Holmes paid no attention to Walker's mistreatment of the poor beast, which I felt was rather cold-hearted of him. Instead he took the opportunity to ask:

"Where did you go after the Anchor, Mr Walker?"

Walker looked back at him, distracted. "Does it matter? We went to the Dog and Duck, if you must know."

We were joined then by Miss Trent-Smith, who plied Holmes with questions as she took us into the house: Had he discovered any clues? How close was he to solving the case? What else could she do to help? I reflected that Adams was very lucky indeed to have inspired such a depth of devotion.

Her father was waiting for us in the library. He ignored Holmes and me, but gave Walker a meaningful glance.

The latter understood. "Come for a walk, Bea," he suggested. "It will clear your head, stop you dwelling on what's happened."

"An excellent idea," her father added. "I shall see justice done at the trial next week, but for you, my dear, it's time to put all this unfortunate business behind you."

Miss Trent-Smith stiffened. "_Unfortunate business_? This isn't simply some temporary episode that I should stop _dwelling on_, you know. I will never forget Edward, not for as long as I live. Indeed, there is no chance of it, for as soon as Mr Holmes has succeeded and his name is cleared, we shall be together for as long as we live." Her cheeks were flushed, and she didn't seem to care in the slightest that she was making a scene in front of Holmes and me. "It is no good trying to distract me, or humour me. I shall not rest until Edward is free. I cannot live without him, for I love him, and I don't care who knows it."

I was quite overcome by the depth of feeling in her speech. It resonated with me on a level I could scarcely define, and in a way it never would have before I met Holmes.

I glanced at him, thinking that surely he could not fail to be moved by her words, but my romantic dreams were shattered. Holmes was not even paying attention to her. He was looking over at her father and Walker, his face a study in abstraction.

"I shall need to speak to this stable boy, Andrews," he said, cutting Miss Trent-Smith in mid-sentence.

"I can take you," Walker volunteered. "He'll be in the older stable block, in the west yard."

Trent-Smith abstractedly gave his permission for this, clearly wanting to get his daughter alone and have a few stern words with her. Walker and Holmes began to move towards the door, Holmes not even glancing back to see whether I was following.

Suddenly I was overcome by a wave of misery. The phrase that had gone through my head a few hours earlier came back: Holmes did not need me. I had not made any useful contribution on this case at all. I supposed Holmes would not even have brought me, were it not out of habit, or perhaps for the diversion of an intimate liaison in the night. That was all he seemed to want from our relationship, after all. He did not care a whit about Miss Trent-Smith's plight, because he could not empathise with it in the slightest.

"I'm afraid I shall have to go back to London," I announced abruptly.

Holmes stopped in his tracks and turned slowly to face me.

"Why on earth?"

I did not look directly at him, but rather included all the people in the room in my gaze.

"I'm frightfully sorry to leave so abruptly, Miss Trent-Smith, but I assure you, Holmes doesn't need me. I'm afraid I have some urgent business to attend to in London."

I shook hands all round, gazing into Holmes' frowning face as coolly and neutrally as into the others'. Then I followed Trent-Smith out to the front of the mansion, apologising again for inconveniencing him, while a carriage was brought round for me.

Just before I climbed into it, I heard the crunch of gravel behind me, and Holmes came striding up, having shaken Walker off somewhere.

"What's going on, Watson?"

I returned his sharp scrutiny with a blank expression. "I thought I had already explained the situation."

The gaze from his narrowed eyes swept me from head to toe. Whatever he saw seemed not to please him, for his frown deepened.

"Watson - " he began, and then stopped short. His hand twitched and rose a little, as if he wanted to reach out and touch me, but Trent-Smith was standing not far off.

"Can't you make your urgent business wait until this afternoon?" he said in a low voice. "Take our luggage to the station, and I will join you for the three o'clock train. I am almost finished here."

I hesitated, firstly because I had spotted his ploy to trap me at the station with his luggage, and secondly because agreeing to wait would render my makeshift excuse even flimsier.

The intensity of Holmes' gaze was making me squirm inside. Finally I gave in.

"Fine. But after three, I am putting your things in the left-luggage office, and taking the train."

"Excellent." He clapped my arm briefly, before turning and striding away.

I watched him go, hoping that by the time we next met I would have repressed the urge to force some sort of dramatic statement out of him.


	4. Chapter 4

The Phrase (4/4)

Author: Garonne

Warnings: none

...

When Holmes finally arrived at the station, I was sitting in the waiting room, pretending to read a provincial newspaper and alternating between feeling heartily cross and feeling rather foolish. I had several times been tempted to take an earlier train to London, and leave him behind, but I knew that to worry him thus would have been a cruel punishment, when he had done nothing but be himself.

He stood over me, his arms folded across his chest. "It was the cousin, if you're interested."

I looked back down at my newspaper. "Indeed?"

"Of course, that had been obvious from the first time we heard Adams' story."

It had not been so to me, but I said nothing.

Holmes went on: "The splitting headache he felt on waking, naturally, was as a result of being hit over the head by Walker, rather than from the small amount of alcohol he had actually consumed. Walker also paid the stable-boy to lie, but someone once bought can often be rebought for a higher amount, as I proved once again this afternoon."

I had intended to read my newspaper in what I hoped was a dignified silence, pretending I hadn't been acting like a fool, but as usual I could not help but be swept up in Holmes' exposition of his deductions.

"And your investigation of the ruins? What did that tell you?"

"Why, nothing at all. I was simply playing the part that old boor seemed to expect of me, whilst waiting for Walker to make an appearance." He was clearly rather pleased with himself. "In a few hours' time Adams will be free to return to his days of totting up figures, and Walker is already in police custody. When I saw how he treated that poor dog, it was clear that he would have little trouble killing a horse to gain his own ends."

I frowned, still not quite understanding. "But what were his ends, exactly?"

Holmes looked down his long nose at me. "He is in love with Miss Trent-Smith, of course."

"Goodness! Indeed?"

"Indubitably, my dear Watson. It is easy to tell when someone is in love."

I looked up directly at him for the first time since his arrival. "Is it?"

Holmes' face became strangely still. "Not always," he said, almost inaudibly.

My heart gave a leap and began to beat faster, although there was really no concrete reason for it to do so.

The tone of the conversation seemed suddenly to have changed dramatically. Holmes was staring down at me, his expression unfathomable. I got to my feet, and we stood facing each other for a long, charged moment.

Holmes said quietly: "I am looking now at the most insoluble mystery of my career, the one I have never been able to crack. It drives me insane... you drive me insane. I know my own mind, but I cannot read yours, and my skills are as naught when faced with the one enigma I wish desperately to solve."

I stared at him, my heart singing, hardly daring to believe that I had properly understood the meaning of his words. I was about to commit the most shocking indiscretion that sleepy provincial train station had ever seen, when I was brought to my senses by a sharp whistle.

"The London train!" Holmes exclaimed, and we both grabbed our cases and dashed out onto the platform, jumping aboard the train just before the conductor.

It was the Friday before a Bank Holiday and the train was crowded. The quietest compartment we could find was one with an elderly couple already inside, dozing on each other's shoulders.

"Holmes," I burst out before we had even sat down.

He held up an imperious hand. "If we cannot talk about the subject which is burning a hole in my mind, then we shall not talk at all."

I glanced sideways at the elderly pair. "But they're sound asleep."

Holmes scowled at them. "If you want to discuss what I believe and hope you do, I have no intention of allowing that to happen within earshot of any living soul. If not - " He stopped short, and for a second I thought I caught a glimpse of a vulnerability he had never before allowed me to see. "If not, never mind." On that note, he put his newspaper up in front of his face, and refused to say another word.

That train journey was the most nerve-wracking I have ever taken, far surpassing my journey back to university to take my final medical exams. I turned Holmes' words over and over in my mind, dissecting and examining them until my head ached.

...

A few hours and a cab ride later, I shut the sitting-room door behind us, and put my bag down by the table. I turned around to face Holmes. Now that we were finally safe from the disapproving and scandal-seeking eyes of the world, I had no idea what to say.

Holmes did not even begin to remove his coat and hat. He was standing by the door with his arms folded, his brows drawn sharply together in a frown.

"You are going to listen to me, Watson, whether you like it or not," he said tightly. "After that you may pack your bags and leave, if you don't like what I have to say, but first you will hear me out. I cannot bite my tongue any longer. I shall never be able to shout my love for you from the rooftops, as I would like, but by God I will say what I feel in the privacy of our own rooms. I adore you, it's as simple as that. Now you are free to break my heart, or not, as you see fit." Thus saying, he came to an abrupt halt, still glaring at me defiantly.

I had often dreamed of this moment, but trust Sherlock Holmes to turn it into a declaration of war. I stammered: "Holmes, I had no idea. You seemed not to – to take us very seriously. I didn't think – "

His eyes were bright, and a flush of colour tinged his face. "Do you really think I would risk your reputation and your liberty for some – some purely physical _fling_? You think I would break the habit of a lifetime of caution for any other man?"

"But why did you never say – ?"

"Good grief! I have never stopped saying it! Yesterday afternoon I told you you were worthy of true love. Yesterday morning I told you my love for you was greater than words could describe."

I had a sudden memory of Holmes reciting in Latin at the breakfast table, and felt rather dense.

He was going on relentlessly: "Three days ago I played you Strauss's _Liebeslieder _while gazing at you as meaningfully as I possibly could. Two weeks ago I read you Rückert's _Springtime of Love_ - "

"In German!" I protested. "That is, if you mean that interminably long thing in the green leather binding."

He gave me a quelling look. "Of course in German. If I had read you poetry in English you would have understood immediately, completely defeating the point. You were supposed to discreetly consult the dictionary later, and draw your own conclusions."

"But Holmes!" I cried. "You must explain, for I don't understand at all. Why all these cryptic words and obscure hints? Why could you not just – simply tell me?"

Suddenly the rigidity left his stance, and he looked away. "How could I? How could I rely on my vaunted skills of deduction in such an important matter? What if I were only imagining that you felt the same way?"

I was so amazed by this thought that I was left completely dumbstruck.

Holmes looked back at me, frowning again. "Watson, even now you leave me in torturous suspense – "

I came forward and took his hands in mine, interlacing my fingers with his. "If you will only let me say I love you, and promise not to be disgusted by my sentimentality, I will say it a thousand times."

He raised an eyebrow at me, his joy shining in his eyes, even as his tongue already settled back into its usual dry groove. "I know I shall never tire of knowing it, my dear man, but I think I might tire of hearing you say it, especially if I am not even allowed to interrupt you to kiss you."

I smiled. "You could always kiss some other part of me."

His hands grasped mine all the tighter, and he jerked me suddenly roughly towards him. "I think I shall do just that."

...

Later, as we lay curled up in one corner of the sofa, I said sleepily:

"Thank goodness for Miss Trent-Smith, and her lack of respect for the proprieties of society."

He stirred. "What's that?"

"Well, if it hadn't been for the inspiration of her little scene, we might still be communicating in riddles."

Holmes was staring at me, his rapid brain putting all the facts together. "So that's what prompted your sudden departure! Miss Trent-Smith's little speech. I'm sorry, my dear fellow. I thought you were suffering from indigestion due to the incredible amount of bacon and eggs you consumed this morning."

I tried to give him a well-deserved poke in the ribs for that, but he had already anticipated it, and rolled away. He sat at the other end of the sofa, laughing heartily, while I glared at him.

"No indeed, my dear fellow," he went on in a more serious tone, coming back to curl his long form around me. "I didn't know what had come over you, but I was afraid to try and explore the issue in front of Trent-Smith. Certain innuendos were sure to arise, for how can they not, where we are concerned?" He ran a long finger lazily down the back of my neck, making me shiver. "As for Miss Trent-Smith's rambling, I wasn't paying it a great deal of attention. Walker's reaction to her words was much more interesting and relevant to the case."

Looking back, my miserable and misguided thoughts during that little scene now seemed melodramatic, and even rather amusing. I settled myself more comfortably against Holmes, warm and content, and closed my eyes.

After a while, I noticed Holmes was chuckling silently, and opened my eyes. He saw my interrogative look, and explained:

"I was just thinking of one of the series of other pieces of music and quotes I had lined up for you. This one is particularly inapposite: "_Entre deux cœurs qui s'aiment, nul besoin de paroles._" He smiled wryly. "A beautiful sentiment, I am sure, but certainly not true."

"What does it mean?"

"What _I_ mean, is that perhaps both of us could have been a little more articulate."

We sat in silence for a while, simply enjoying each other's company. Then I felt Sherlock Holmes' breath tickle my ear. "_Le seul vrai langage au monde est un baiser,_" he said softly.

He could read my question in my face.

"It means this," he said, and he bent his head and kissed me tenderly.

He had done so hundreds of times before, but in our new-found understanding this kiss felt like a first time, suffused as it was with the strength and certainty of our love.

...

Fin.  
>...<p>

...

If you're curious about the various quotes Holmes uses:

The French ones are from 19th century poets Marceline Desbordes-Valmore (_Entre deux coeurs qui s'aiment, nul besoin de paroles:_ Between two hearts in love, there's no need for words) and Alfred de Musset (_Le seul vrai langage au monde est un baiser:_ The only true language in the world is a kiss.) Friedrich Rückert is a 19th century poet too. The Latin ones are just two that you see often on wedding accessories and the like. _Si vis amari, ama_ : Love, if you want to be loved, and _Amor meus amplior quam verba est_ : My love is greater than words.


End file.
